Black_Tide

by Patrick Freivald

  Instead, Matt stood, placed his pistol on the desk, and turned, hands at his side. The door opened and the bouncer from outside entered. Matt kept his hands raised and suffered a thorough pat-down. He picked up and holstered his weapon before Sakura removed hers. She raised her arms and glared at Matt through the frisk, and while he left no area unaccounted for, for his part the big man remained professional throughout. With a nod to Kellett, the guard left.

  Re-seated, Matt raised an eyebrow. "You're on."

  "The reason we ejected these men is because they had hired another man, a Mister Peter Salomon, to fire-bomb Jade houses throughout the southern United States. Despite the drug's terrible hold, they sought to punish those poor souls who had fallen to its seduction. We have our differences, Mister Rowley, but I am and always have been a man of peace. We neither supported nor condoned these actions, and cast out these pariahs the moment their actions became known.

  "But these are not men of means. They would not have had the wherewithal to hire personal assistants, much less finance a party of anarchy-minded hooligans. No, someone, an ally, backed their scheme and with rather a lot of money for men such as that. It seems likely that whoever hired Mister Salomon before has done so again. Find him, and find their backer."

  Sakura looked up from her phone. "Lots of Peter Salomons. We need more."

  "He's a bald man, perhaps fifty or so, a little over six feet tall. He runs an import/export business out of New York, a couple miles from LaGuardia."

  "This is a front?" Sakura asked.

  "It appears to be legitimate, though I confess I haven't investigated it beyond cursory PI work. Our interests extended as far as removing these men from our flock, nothing more."

  Matt clucked his tongue. "It didn't occur to you to, say, alert the authorities?"

  Kellett frowned. "The authorities did not take a strong view toward our cause, Mr. Rowley. Our ministries have suffered years of harassment by the IRS and the FBI, and both local and state law enforcement showed more interest in investigating us than helping. They saw your organization as a necessary evil and not the abomination it was."

  Matt spoke over Sakura's low growl. "Is there anything else you can tell us?"

  "I'm afraid not. Remember, this conversation did not happen. Nobody saw you here, and no cameras have recorded your presence. I cannot be seen assisting you, even if it serves a common and very important interest."

  Matt stood. "If that's all, we'll find our own way out."

  Kellett watched them as they stalked down the hallway, and when they turned the corner they found the bouncer standing at the end of the hall, arms crossed. He held the door for them and watched them until they got in the car and drove off.

  Matt called Janet and gave her the information. Twenty minutes later they had tax records and blueprints for Salomon Imports, a wholesaler and pawn shop with more warehouse than retail space. Salomon kept his nose clean, at least as far as the IRS knew, and did a brisk business in firearms, jewelry, and personal electronics.

  Matt noted with some interest that Salomon had no experience with the armed forces, nor with prison. Mediocre scores in high school, a community college degree in accounting, and twelve years doing the books for an upscale restaurant before transitioning into the pawn and import business didn't look like the résumé of a professional mercenary.

  "Do you see what I see?"

  Sakura nodded. "Something here doesn't add up."

  "How about dinner? I'm thinking pasta. In Manhattan."

  * * *

  New York City shimmered in the evening fog as the Apache touched down atop the MetLife building. Rotors cut through the moisture in a thousand continuous whirlwinds, catching the lights from below and throwing them into a refracted cacophony. The stink hit the moment Matt stepped out of the helicopter, and as it lifted off, the beat of the rotors yielded to the beat of the city—honking horns and the wind-like whoosh of constant traffic.

  "Welcome to the Big Apple," Matt said.

  "I've been here before." Sakura walked down the steps to where a man in a cheap suit waited, walkie-talkie in one hand, the roof access door held open with the other.

  Matt gave a nod to the doorman and followed Sakura to the elevator. They rode down sixty stories, exited the lobby into the crush of late weekday traffic, and walked right into Grand Central Station.

  The underground platform smelled of stale urine and body odor, far too hot despite the cool evening, and they suffered through two train arrivals and departures before they managed to catch the third, the press of bodies writhing with impatience every time the doors opened anew. With standing room only, the jerky M train whisked them downtown to 23rd street.

  They bounded up the stairs into the cool, comparative darkness, and headed on foot toward Gramercy Park.

  Gadadi's defied the stereotypical red checkered tablecloth, with huge windows tinted gold under the orange streetlights revealing a spacious interior more at home in a mansion than a pasta place. Oak tables polished to a mirror shine scattered throughout the dining room under an enormous chandelier, half electric, half candles, just enough light to illuminate without dispersing too many shadows. The bar, a solid slab of lacquered redwood at least eighteen feet long dominated one wall, backed by mirrored shelves holding all manner of liquor. Matt opened the door to a mouthwatering aroma of seafood, garlic, and fresh-baked bread.

  The maître d's smile collapsed as he turned to greet them, hands clasping and unclasping in front of his black suit as they approached the podium just inside the door. The short, skinny man's eyes scanned from scuffed sneakers to jeans up to their T-shirts and back down, flicking from detail to detail with a brutal efficiency that Matt expected from professional bodyguards. "I'm sorry, but the gentleman will require a jacket and . . . different . . . trousers. The lady . . . I . . . I don't know where to start."

  Matt tried not to smile at the Brooklyn tough-guy accent peeking through the upscale put-down. He opened his mouth but Sakura cut him off.

  "He's not a gentleman." Sakura put her hand on the podium and leaned in, her tone cold. "And I'm not a lady."

  The five men at the bar, all in suits, turned around on their stools, and the bartender's hands dropped beneath the counter, all traces of joviality gone in an instant.

  Matt smiled. "I'm not looking for trouble. I was hoping to talk to Mr. Gadadi and maybe get a bite to eat."

  A man at the bar pushed through the back door into the kitchen, but the suit in front of Matt didn't budge. Instead, he made a show of twirling his finger and then pointing out the front door. "If you two aren't looking for trouble, maybe you wants to not look for it someplace else."

  "We came a long way." He put his elbows on the podium and leaned in too close. "And that clam sauce smells delicious." Then he waited, aware of but not looking at the other men, whose conversation had stalled in favor of watching the altercation.

  The maître d' neither flinched nor blinked, despite Matt looking down at him from eight inches up. The whispers slithered through and around the man's voice as he spoke. "Buddy, you're a thousand miles out of your league, here, so why don't you take your little chink girlfriend and find another place to eat, huh?"

  Matt put his hand on Sakura's arm before she could punch the little rat in the face. "Blossom, we're not here to hurt these people."

  The men at the bar stood and spread out. Matt assessed their stances and dismissed them as dangerous thugs without any real training, but almost definitely armed with small-caliber pistols.

  Sakura jerked free and put her fists on her hips. "Maybe not at first." Her fist snapped forward and stopped a hair's breadth from the little man's nose. She held it there just long enough for him to see it, then returned it to her hip.

  He stumbled back, mouth wide. She glowered, but deflated enough for Matt to feel comfortable taking his attention off her.

  "I'd advise against racial slurs until we get to know each other better. If you want to keep your head attached o
r whatever."

  The maître d' looked from Sakura's flushed, angry face to Matt's, pointedly avoiding the armed men at the bar. "Who did you say you were again?"

  "Homeland Security, Special Threats Bureau. We came a long way to ask Mr. Gadadi a couple of questions about a guy who used to work for him. So if you wouldn't mind . . . ?"

  "I've never heard of the Special Threats Bureau."

  Matt shrugged. "You're a maître d'. I can't imagine why you would have. Mr. Gadadi, please."

  "What kind of questions?"

  Matt had to admire the little pipsqueak's composure, even if he wanted to pop his tiny head off. "The kind of questions that Mr. Gadadi might answer. Are you Mr. Gadadi?"

  "You got a warrant?"

  "I didn't figure I needed one. Because if I, you know, needed one or something, I've got enough probable cause with all the heat in here to get one wired to your FAX while we wait."

  Muttering in Japanese, Sakura cut around them and headed for the kitchen door. The four men at the bar moved to intercept, hands going into their jackets. The bartender lifted a shotgun to his shoulder and racked the slide. No shell came out, which meant he'd kept the chamber empty so he could rack it for effect.

  Matt hollered to draw their attention and raised his hands. "Hey! I don't want to hurt anybody. I'm just here to talk. Sakura, stand down." He wondered how often she forgot that while an incredible martial artist with stunning reflexes, she possessed a shadow of her former abilities. Standing in the middle of a kill box, arms at her sides but not relaxed, she wouldn't take down more than two of them before they shot her to death.

  Still, he couldn't help but admire her courage.

  Sakura relaxed, stepped to the side, and sat, hands folded between her knees. The suit nearest the kitchen door waved Matt to him. Bloodthirsty whispers warned him before he stepped forward, so, hands still in the air, he smiled at the little man at the podium.

  "You try to club me with that blackjack it'll be the last thing you ever do. You saw how fast she is. I'm so much faster. I've got no beef with anybody here."

  The maître d' pulled his hand out of his jacket and placed the blackjack on the podium.

  With a nod of approval, Matt turned away and walked over to stand next to Sakura. One hand on the back of her chair, he leaned just enough to look off-guard and raised his eyebrows at the sandy-haired guy who'd waved him over.

  The man sized him up. "So you're feds."

  Matt nodded. Close enough. "And you guys are damn touchy for happy hour. Just for the record, I don't care who any of you are, or who you work for, or what you're up to. I'm looking for information on a man who used to work here. That's all."

  "We don't talk to cops."

  Matt held up his hands. "I'm not a cop. She's not a cop. We just have some questions regarding a personal matter."

  "And this guy you're looking for, who might he be?"

  "Guy who did your books, now runs a pawn shop in Queens."

  "Petey Salmonella," someone said.

  All eyes turned to a young guy at the bar, his black hair slicked back with too much gel, his suit a little too big. He blushed and looked down, digging his toe into the floorboard.

  Matt reached out his hand to the sandy-haired man, pulling his attention away from the kid. "Matt Rowley."

  "Chris Gadadi. My uncle owns the place, but he doesn't know nothing you want to know." He jerked his head toward a small side room, with a single table set for twelve. "Lew, get us some clams and bread."

  The bartender gave him a thumbs-up as they followed Chris into the private dining room. The other three turned back to the bar. Chris unbuttoned his coat and sat facing the door, leaning on the table to expose a shoulder holster with a small revolver, the mother-of-pearl grip inlayed with polished silver. "What do you want with Salomon?"

  Matt pulled two chairs out from the table, then sat in one. After a moment's hesitation Sakura sat with him, seats turned forty-five degrees so they could keep an eye on the door. Nervous energy poured off her, every muscle tense, eyes blazing with promised violence.

  Before Matt could answer, Chris spoke again. "You're an Aug."

  Matt nodded.

  "Nobody's augmented anymore. All that shit stopped working."

  Matt's shoulders twitched, the barest hint of a shrug. Chris looked to Sakura, who sat too still for a normal human, then back to Matt. Matt waited. Chris broke first.

  "Yeah, all right, your business. So what do you want with Salomon?"

  "He's got an interesting résumé."

  "You hiring? I don't think he's looking for work right now."

  "We're trying to figure out how a restaurant accountant turned import/export tycoon got into hiring out mercenaries and weapons to extremist assholes."

  Chris snorted at "tycoon" and his face lost all expression at the mention of mercenaries, his cadence taking on an artificial cast. "We have not been affiliated with Mister Salomon for a number of years, in the restaurant or in any other business venture. I'm afraid I can't help you regarding his current professional exploits."

  Lew came in with a giant white platter, loaded with enough linguini in white clam sauce for ten people. Steam rose from the pasta, filling the room with the smell of garlic and clams and heavy cream. Behind him a young man in a stained white chef's coat carried a basket overflowing with crusty baguettes, sliced partway through, steam rising from them in soft clouds.

  Matt helped himself to a huge serving and tore off three chunks of bread. Sakura took one slice and put a little sauce on her plate. They both declined the offered bottle of wine in favor of ice water.

  Chris took nothing, but sat on the edge of his seat while they ate, drumming his fingers on the table and staring past them.

  Sakura tore a bit of crust from her bread, dunked it in the sauce, and held it. "You nervous, Mister Gadadi?"

  "Nah." Chris stopped drumming. "I got a lot of energy, and the attention deficit. How's the clams? Best in the world, am I right?"

  "Delicious." She popped the bite in her mouth and half-turned so that she could more obviously face the door.

  "Well," Matt said around a mouthful of linguini that somehow tasted even better than it smelled, "can you tell me anything about his transition from this job to his current one?"

  Chris raised his hands. "Not so much. He made some business contacts—we get a lot of high-profile people in here, you know?—and built his current operation up slow, bringing stuff in and out of the country for people who want it. All on the up and up, totally legit, nothing the cops would even blink at. Started making so much money he quit."

  Matt glanced down at his water and blinked, the illusion of a half-melted feather gone as soon as it had appeared. He looked Chris in the eyes. "Is he made?"

  Chris chuckled and ripped the end piece off of a loaf. "You watch too many movies. There's no—"

  "He hired men to rape and kill my wife and kidnap my son. I'm asking you if I kill him whether I'll have problems with your organization."

  Chris leaned back, frowning, and set the bread on the table. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

  Matt shook his head. "I interrupted them. My wife is okay, mostly, but I'm looking for my son. He's my only lead."

  "You got a picture? I can put some feelers out."

  Matt put his fork down, his hunger strangled by grief and rage. "Yeah. Give me a number I'll send you one. Thank you." He dabbed his mouth with the napkin and set it down. "Now what about Salomon?"

  Chris grimaced. "The guys like him. He's been a fixture a long time, a lot of us grew up with him." He stole a sauce-soaked chunk of bread off of Sakura's plate and popped it in his mouth. "But he is not under our protection."

  Chapter 12

  The pawn shop stood on the corner, a squat brick building painted white with iron bars across safety-glass windows and a blazing neon sign stating WE BUY GOLD. Salomon Imports took up the rest of the block, a maze of warehouses and cargo containers stacked six high, all surrounded
by a chain link fence topped with razor wire. A guard shack stood next to the only gate, just large enough for one bored-looking attendant half-asleep at the switch.

  "You sure?" Sakura asked, her breath billowing white in the night air. "He'll recognize you."

  "I'm sure." Matt jerked a thumb at the fence. "You want to play Minotaur while I see if Mister Salomon is in his office?"

  "At eight o'clock at night?"

  "He's self-employed. These entrepreneurial types work long hours. We'll meet in the middle."

  Sakura sighed in a theatrical blast of frosted air, then ducked out of sight. Moments later a shadow slithered through the razor wire, over the top, and down the other side into the darkness. Matt pulled his jacket tighter, stepped over the curb to the pawn shop door and pushed his way inside.

  Bright and clean, the interior boasted several rows of glass cases brimming with glistening watches, necklaces, rings, and other jewelry. Electronics lined the left wall, TVs and game consoles, laptops, and tablets. The right side boasted an impressive array of paintball equipment, guns of all sorts, plus helmets, bandoleers, holsters, and camo outfits. Behind the cash register swords hung on a giant pegboard rack, cheap katana knock-offs and huge Scottish broadswords made to imitate movie props.

  "Excuse me, sir."

  Matt turned to the enormous man perched on a stool next to the front door. His bulging chest and pecs threatened to burst out of the extra-large NY Jets jersey. Light blue eyes stared out from a face bearing not the slightest trace of fat.

  "Oh, hi." Matt had seen him from outside, but played clueless. "I'm just looking."

  The bouncer grabbed Matt's arm before he could step away. "No weapons permitted in the store."

  "Oh." Matt pulled his pistol out with two fingers, flipping it around to hold it by the barrel. "It's loaded." He handed it to the bouncer, who put it in an otherwise-empty cardboard banana box on the counter next to him. "Any others?"

  Matt pulled back his jacket and made a pirouette. The bouncer nodded in approval, so Matt wandered along the display cases, trying to do the math on how much merchandise Salomon kept up front. A couple hundred thousand dollars, give or take. Which meant security came in more flavors than "enormous Jets fan."